Poetry

Single Red Rose

All my roses were supposed to be white,

All my roses were supposed to be perfect,

And when I saw that little red rose,

I decided the best way to get rid of it

Was to not water it,

And while it wilted a little,

It was not enough to kill it,

Still, the rose grew.

Fine, I will paint it white.

However, the paint flaked off

Presenting scarlet flags clutching a sweet-smelling center.

Over and over again

I'd layer the pure and perfect color

Yet it always curled and fell 

From each brilliant petal.

Fine, I will cut you away.

So I took my scissors

And approached the little red rose,

My shadow cast over it like a lion before a disobedient cub,

I fit my scissors around it's stem

Like an executioner's ax aiming for a slender neck

And I-

Snip!

-Watched it, no, I watched her fall.

Her petals shivering as she felt 

air rush past them

her stem curled up as she fell headfirst to the ground spinning,

I almost felt her pain.

Fine, I will say goodbye.

So much time later, I saw her walk with another,

My little red rose smiled and waved

She walked up the carpet and her petals it shamed,

Calling the carpet bland.

Something warm slid down my cheek, it burned

like a child's legs on a slide in summer.

Fine. She was beautiful.

All my roses were supposed to be small

All my roses were supposed to be red

But when they bloomed in the garden,

And I saw a perfect pink rose,

I smiled,

I watered it,

I watched it grow,

And I loved my perfect pink rose

Most of all.